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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413279">The Call</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aftenstjerne/pseuds/Aftenstjerne'>Aftenstjerne</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Addams Family - All Media Types, The Addams Family (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Married Life, Married Sex, Phone Sex, Porn with Feelings, because Skype is for prostitutes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:34:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26413279</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aftenstjerne/pseuds/Aftenstjerne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gomez is away on a business trip to Tokyo and Morticia waits for him to call her, like he always does. After seven days without a word from him, she begins to unravel.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleObsessions/gifts">LittleObsessions</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've been a fan of LittleObsessions' work for many years now. So LittleObsessions, this one is for you.<br/>helloitshaley, thank you again for offering your beta skills. They are much appreciated. I would also like to than whythankyouthing for being supportive in general and midnightlovestories for showing me how to keep my italics. I was seconds away from throwing my laptop against the wall lol.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>When Morticia returned from juvenile court with her son, Pugsley, she went straight to the wine cellar and picked up the first bottle she saw. It happened to be a Château Haut-Brion, a rare bottle of fine vintage. It was bottled in 1905, purchased by her husband for a considerable amount of money and meant to be served at their next family reunion. Her eyes fell on the label the second after she had opened it. She concluded that the damage was already done, and told herself she might as well enjoy it. Gomez had gone to Tokyo on a two-week business trip, so no need to make her excuses to him. She brought the bottle to the master bedroom where she undressed and slipped into a simple black robe.</p><p> </p><p> Although she had anticipated her son’s first trial for a long time, she had entered the courtroom without feeling the slightest tinge of enthusiasm. It was a horrible day, bright and sunny, and the windows in the courtroom had been curtainless. Luckily, she was the first witness to give testimony. Her Pugsley was only eleven, but his mind was set on getting the first remark on his record before the end of the semester. Morticia thought the least she could do as a devoted parent was to give an honest testimony when his case came up for trial. Judging by the way the defender hid his face in his hands and groaned, she reckoned she had said the right things. However, she took no joy in the young man’s theatrical response to her eloquence. </p><p> </p><p>On the inside, she was slowly dying and it was not as pleasant as one might think. After she had finished speaking, Morticia took her seat again and the rest of the trial went by in a blur. The only thing she could focus on was the empty chair next to her. Bathed in the rays from the merciless sun, the oval shaped backrest reminded her of a tombstone.</p><p> </p><p>Seven days, and he had not yet called her.</p><p> </p><p>So unlike him.</p><p> </p><p>Gomez was always the first of them to call when he was away from home. It was one of those small, established rituals of their marriage, never spoken of and thus taken for granted. He always called her first.</p><p> </p><p>Morticia was the most important person in his life and he could not endure much more than a day without talking to her.</p><p> </p><p>At least, that was what she used to believe.</p><p> </p><p>This time, it turned out he managed very well without her, drowning himself in work on that damn octopus farm.  </p><p> </p><p>The longer she waited, the harder it seemed for her to just pick up the receiver and end her torment.</p><p> </p><p>Pugsley shouted in triumph, waking her from her reverie.</p><p>“300 hours of community service for carrying explosives on the school bus! Can you believe it, Mother?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> She should have felt pride.  Instead, she felt nothing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After having dressed for another evening in solitude, Morticia heads for the library, bringing the wine bottle and a glass with her. Lurch retired for the evening a couple of hours ago and her children are in their rooms. Her mother is out partying with her coven, most likely until dawn. She is not sure about Fester, one can never be. At least she is alone for the moment, for which she is grateful.</p><p> </p><p>The library air is dank and all that is left of the fire is a few dying embers. Morticia pulls her robe tighter before she enters the room, moving slowly towards the fireplace. There is a basket filled with birch logs standing in the corner and she throws a couple of them on before searching the mantelpiece for matches. Her hands grasps a small gasoline can, probably left there by Fester. She throws that on as well and gets an instant, roaring fire.</p><p>Standing as close to the flames as she dares, she pours herself a glass of the Château Haut-Brion. She lets the expensive liquid linger in her mouth for a little while before she swallows.  </p><p>It tastes like ashes. However, she welcomes the heat spreading in her chest, softening the edges of a longing that cuts like barbed wire through her soul.</p><p>Usually, Morticia never allows herself more than three glasses of wine, or an occasional cocktail, in one night. When drinking with Gomez, she might steal a sip of his brandy if he leaves his glass unattended. Whatever she chooses to drink, she drinks it slowly. She never lets herself get drunk and she never loses control. Yet tonight she pours down the wine as if it was henbane juice. Slightly inebriated she leaves the library to tour the mansion. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At the end of a long corridor, Morticia approaches the parlour where from time to time, Gomez will entertain a small circle of gentlemen. One of the large Gothic windows is open and she inhales the rich scent of growth and decay drifting in from the swamp.</p><p>The monotonous drone of the aquarium pump is the only sound breaking the silence in the parlour. She swirls her wine absentmindedly while regarding Aristotle floating in his tank. He spirals up to the surface, then slowly down again, releasing clouds of ink, which spread through the water like Rorschach drawings. If someone had asked Morticia for her interpretation, she would have said they all resembled her husband’s face. His eyes, his wicked grin and his moustache drift past her vision as she stares into the emerald depths of the tank.</p><p> </p><p>Clearly, she needs therapy.</p><p> </p><p>On her way out, she eyes a white piece of fabric, recklessly tossed over a room divider. She picks it up and finds that it is one of Gomez’s shirts. On a whim, Morticia loosens the ribbon around her waist, letting her robe pool to the floor before she puts the shirt on. The sleeves cover her hands down to the tips of her red claws. The garment slumps down her arms, as it is meant to cover shoulders considerably broader than her own.</p><p>She buries her face in the fabric and inhales the intoxicating scent of her <em>homme</em>: a fresh, clean smell of his favourite cologne mixed with a faint hint of tobacco.</p><p> </p><p>It makes her body weak with longing.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It is the little things she misses the most.</p><p> </p><p>Lying in bed at night, drifting away to the sound of Gomez working late. The bass in his confidant phone voice buzzing through the half-open bedroom door, accompanied by faint keyboard clicking. “<em>Buying at a high price and selling at a lower, yes Mr Smith, that was my plan from the beginning….”yeah, that can be arranged….” (laughter)  As I said Western junkyards and rental cars is already doomed, don’t you worry about that…I’m an Addams, for heaven’s sake…” (more laughter). </em></p><p> </p><p>Waking up early enough to be able to roll over and embrace her husband’s sleeping form before daylight and duties and that never-ending restless energy of his stole him from her. Morticia would coil up against him like a reptile on a hot stone, stealing his warmth. Lying there, her heart full and her mind empty, she would focus solely on the subtle rise and fall of his chest under her hand as the grey morning would seep in from underneath the heavy drapes. In these sacred moments, her world is complete.</p><p> </p><p>Later, having him comb her hair while she enjoys her morning coffee on the balcony. He would always strive to do it gently, untangling her hair as carefully as he could, as if he had not buried his fists in it a few blissful hours ago. As if he never had tugged at her raven tresses, dragging her across the floor until she succumbed to the will of her howling demon.</p><p> </p><p>Morticia glides swiftly down the hallway without the usual restraint of her tight dress. She is not exactly dressed for modesty; Gomez’s discarded shirt barely reaches the middle of her thighs.</p><p> </p><p> She does not care.</p><p> </p><p> “<em>If Fester is peeping through the keyholes tonight I’ll stab him in the eye with the stem of my glass,” </em>she mutters to herself, her voice echoing in the desolate hallway. “<em>I’ll just have to empty it first.</em>”</p><p> </p><p> Attacked by a sudden wave of dizziness, Morticia drives her nails into the mouldy edge of the wainscoting in an attempt to regain balance. The wine spills over her hand, and she curses as it drips down on the antique carpet.</p><p> </p><p>She covers the back of her hand with her mouth, lapping up the expensive liquid. The sensation of her hot mouth and tongue against her own skin sends stings of longing through her gut. In a painful moment, she realises just how much she misses being touched.</p><p> </p><p>Morticia’s glass is empty and she needs more, but the wine bottle is too far away in the library. Instead, she searches for the bottle of brandy that she knows Gomez stores in the small cupboard next to the coat stand.</p><p> </p><p> <em>If he drank directly from it</em>… <em>and I think he does that sometimes… well, it’s the closest I’ll come to kissing him tonight</em>.</p><p> </p><p>Morticia closes her eyes and lifts the bottle to her mouth. It tastes like him.</p><p> </p><p>She moans in despair.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The instant warmth spreads like wildfire in her chest, but her aching need for Gomez just keeps growing, fuelled by the golden liquid pouring down her throat. She makes her way down a steep and winding staircase, grabbing the wrought iron bar for support, as her legs cannot be fully trusted.</p><p> </p><p>Well down in the basement, she stops by the door leading into what her friend Margaret refers to as Gomez’s “man cave”. She pushes the door open with her left hand, still holding on to her almost empty glass of brandy with her right, and the door screeches on rusty hinges. He has left the curtains open, allowing the blood-soaked August moon to illuminate his collection of model trains and weapons. The chaos that usually reigns in there is gone along with the heavy cloud of cigar smoke. The air is clean with a chaste scent of dry earth and coffee beans.</p><p> </p><p>There is something ominous about a room that is too tidy, especially if it belongs to Gomez Addams. He usually goes by like a whirlwind in a smoking jacket, scattering random objects everywhere. Morticia has sprained her ankle on more than one occasion, stumbling over one of his model trains. Gomez promised he would become a tidier version of himself, but she had yet to see that happen.</p><p> </p><p>The only time he makes a real effort organizing his things is before he goes abroad.</p><p> </p><p>Now the train wagons are standing nose to tail on their tracks. The dust from the last explosion has long settled and the wrecks are brought to their final resting place. Bathed in the rich moonlight, the hand painted toy city looks more like a ghost town than ever. She leans her hip against the mahogany table as she studies the model trains as if they were new to her. Every chrome-plated detail is weeping streams of silver, as if these overpriced tin cans share her feeling of neglect.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Overwhelmed by a sudden pang of wistfulness, she puts her brandy down.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Morticia goes through her husband’s collection of playthings, carefully touching and lifting the various weapons and curiosities.</p><p> </p><p>And it hits her with a terrifying clarity that if he should be gone forever, this is what she will be left with after her children have moved out: A monstrously vast mansion filled with cold, dead things.</p><p> </p><p>Things which all seem to cast shadows like crosses on a grave, and she can clearly see her home turned into a mausoleum where each and every item that he has held ,used and valued will serve as monuments to the only man she ever loved.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Gomez is not dead</em>, Morticia reminds herself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Far from it.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He is just- </em>
</p><p> </p><p>She pauses upon the stairs leading to the library, fighting back the well of hot tears that threaten to fall from her eyes.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He is just being a bit… ignorant.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s all. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Back in the library, Morticia sinks down on the blue, velvet chaise lounge beside the phone table. Lying there, she stares at the receiver as if it was a strawberry snow cone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Do it.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Pick up the receiver, you know you want to. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>No!</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>I’m doing it anyway. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Gomez answers on the second ring and her heart leaps in her chest.</p><p> </p><p>“Cara mia, is that you?” </p><p> </p><p>“Mon cher” she whispers, and then her voice fails her.</p><p> </p><p>“Tish, I’m so glad that you called,” Gomez exclaims, all sheer enthusiasm. “I meant to call you earlier but things have gone completely loco over here.  I have never been a witness to such a horrific display of mismanagement in my whole life as I have on this particular octopus farm. Yesterday, I saw the workers chase the straw boss around with a pitchfork! I felt like I was back on the hacienda. Ah, the reawakening of all my childhood traumas! “</p><p> </p><p>He laughs jovially and it vexes her. How can he be in such a terribly good mood while she is here alone and unravelling?</p><p> </p><p>“All the money we have thrown into that giant squid project seems to have disappeared into thin air!” he continues, ever the clever businessman.</p><p> </p><p>“Wherever it did go, they sure didn’t spend it on new fences. Two of those rascals escaped the other day and went on a rampage in Osaka bay. The lawsuits are piling up. All the investors left the board meeting in anger last night, save me and that Korean guy.”    </p><p> </p><p>“Speaking of lawsuits,” she barely manage to force the words past the lump in her throat “Pugsley got his first sentence today.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh Tish, I almost forgot! You must tell him how proud I am! How was the trial? Tell me everything!</p><p> </p><p>“It was fine,” she snaps, those damn tears welling up in her eyes again.</p><p> </p><p>“Just fine?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do you care to give me the details?” Gomez asks, a bit taken aback by her blunt reply.</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Morticia whispers and she can no longer deny the fact that she is crying.</p><p> </p><p>“Why didn’t you call me? I waited, Gomez. For seven days.”</p><p> </p><p>Oh, how she hates the neediness in her own voice. Rage fills her chest and pours from her eyes. She rubs them angrily leaving black streaks on her husband’s crisp white shirt. </p><p> </p><p>She is mad, she really is.</p><p> </p><p> At him, for having the power to make her feel this way. At herself, for not being able to control her emotions in front of him.</p><p> </p><p>“Morticia, listen- I’m dreadfully sorry that I didn’t call you sooner. Every time I had five minutes to spare, I figured you’d be asleep by then. Please don’t be angry with me.”</p><p> </p><p>“I miss you,” she replies, her voice barely audible, she is almost choking and not in the way which she prefers to be choked.</p><p> </p><p>“Tish,” he says, and she can clearly hear the disbelief in her husband’s voice “my darling, my love, are you… <em>crying</em>?”</p><p> </p><p>“I didn’t plan this,” she sobs, “you must not think that I did.”</p><p> </p><p>“Plan what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Call you and have-“ she pauses to regain her ability to speak, her shoulders shaking and her nails cutting into her palms like razors “ a complete mental breakdown.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay to cry. You know that, don’t you?”</p><p> </p><p>That is the kind of simple truth she might have told her own children, still her brain refuses to comprehend it. She understands the concept on an intellectual level, but it stops there.</p><p> </p><p>Yet she nods in response, knowing perfectly well that it makes no sense, but right now that is all she can do. A dam has broken, splintering the floorboards of her self-restraint, and although she conjures all her strength, she cannot stop the turmoil of feelings raging inside her. That is, she realizes, what you get from crying only every fifth year or so. Once you get started, there is no end to it.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t always have to be the strongest one, angelita mia.” He pauses and she has nothing to give him but her stifled sobbing.</p><p> </p><p>“Of the two of us, I mean. And in general.”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you”, she whispers, not exactly sure what she is thanking him for, maybe just the kindness in his words or the unconditional love they stem from.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to see Pugsley take his first steps on his criminal path. And I’m sorry I can’t be there for you right now. Not in the way I want to.”</p><p> </p><p>He sighs woefully, and she knows it hurts him to witness her pain. She quietly hopes she has not ruined the rest of his trip for him. Her anger is gone; all that is left is her bone deep need to be with her beloved.</p><p> </p><p>“Morticia, is there anything I can do for you? Just say it and I’ll do it.”</p><p> </p><p>She feels an instant need to ask him to catch the next plane to New York, but she fights it back, knowing perfectly well that he would have done so without hesitation and that would have made her feel horrible. Even when inebriated, it would be way beyond her dignity to manipulate her husband like that. Besides, it goes against everything she believes a healthy marriage should be like.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me more about your week,” she whispers instead. “Tell me about life on the octopus farm.”</p><p> </p><p>He does so with great enthusiasm. She lets the calming sound of his lilting voice comfort her, cradling the receiver as if she is laying in the ocean holding on to a piece of drift wood. As she focuses on listening instead of forcing her tears back, her body gradually stops shaking and her breathing becomes calm and even.</p><p> </p><p>When his monologue comes to a halt, she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.</p><p> </p><p>“Are you feeling better, querida?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she replies, relieved to have regained her normal speaking voice “I feel much better. Thank you. I don’t know what came over me. I feel like such a cliché. Getting drunk on vintage wine, then calling you while wearing your bloody…<em>shirt</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>“What did you say you were wearing?”</p><p> </p><p>“Your shirt, darling.”</p><p> </p><p>“You mean like in…wearing my shirt and nothing other than my shirt?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes,” she whispers and her stomach drops upon the crucial shift in tone in their conversation.</p><p>           </p><p>“Tish, I’m going to be honest with you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Oui, mon cher?”</p><p> </p><p>“I feel an urgent need to move this conversation to Skype.”</p><p> </p><p>“Darling, we are done with that discussion.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please, Tish? I need to see you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You know perfectly well that I think Skype is for prostitutes, and I won’t elaborate on the subject one more time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Querida, I beg you! This office is stuffed with high quality video equipment, and I would sell my soul to the Devil for just a tiny glimpse of….</p><p> </p><p>“I won’t log on Skype, Gomez”.</p><p> </p><p>“How about Zoom? Teams? Facetime?”</p><p> </p><p>She cannot help but smile at the unbridled desperation in his voice. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s not a question of platforms, but of principles,” she argues, stretching her body in a cat-like manner to lay more comfortably. She wants a quick end to the discussion as she feels a familiar anticipation starting to spread like prickling heat in her lower abdomen.</p><p> </p><p>“Right. Okay, you win. Let’s have phone sex like it’s 1899!”</p><p> </p><p> She bursts into laughter.</p><p> </p><p>“Is that sarcasm or enthusiasm that I hear, darling?” she teases. “If I’m not mistaken, that was the production year of this phone, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>He does not reply.</p><p> </p><p>For a few long seconds, all Morticia hears is a faint buzzing on the line and her own heart picking up speed behind her breastplate.</p><p> </p><p>“Gomez- are you there?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Then, the unmistakable sound of a zipper being pulled down violently.</p><p> </p><p>She parts her lips and moans.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m here. Cara, could you do a thing for me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Depends on what you want.”</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to unbutton that shirt for me.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice makes her shiver with delight.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Low, lascivious, Castilian.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>How she wishes he were there.</p><p> </p><p>“Oui<em>,</em>” she whispers. Although he cannot see her, she puts on a show, as she would have done if they were in the same room. Clutching the receiver between her cheek and her shoulder, she pops the buttons one by one, elegantly flicking her wrists like a burlesque dancer.</p><p> </p><p>He groans with satisfaction as if he can see what she is doing. She believes that in a way he can. Like her, he is gifted with an extremely vivid imagination.</p><p> </p><p>“The most...perfect…breasts…..in the universe,” he mutters through gritted teeth, “touch them.”</p><p> </p><p>She does as he tells her. The warmth from her hands feels welcome on her cool skin. Her nipples tighten against her palms as she cups her breasts the way he would do.</p><p> </p><p>“Feels good?”</p><p> </p><p>Morticia sighs with pleasure and Gomez hisses in return as if she was whipping him.  </p><p> </p><p>Cruel as she is, she has granted her husband less of her than he pleaded for, and yet it works wonders for him. There is no doubt in her mind what he is doing right now and the mere thought of it heightens her arousal to the extreme. She feeds on his desire as a vampire feeds on blood. If she had drained him for the last drop of it, she would still crave more. It brings out the best in her, her beauty and her power.</p><p> </p><p>“Go one,” he rasps, “go lower. Your waist…your hips…your glorious thighs.” For each part of her body he mentions, his accent gets audibly thicker as if he is descending a ladder further into the depths of his bottomless desire for her.</p><p> </p><p>“I want you to touch every inch of skin I’m dying to kiss right now.”</p><p> </p><p>Morticia closes her eyes and pictures her husband sitting in his Tokyo office. Devilishly handsome and impeccably dressed except for his open fly and the throbbing erection resting in one olive hued, masculine hand. </p><p> </p><p>“Are you getting wet for me?”</p><p> </p><p>The question makes her squirm against the plush blue velvet as a wave of exquisite heat ripples through the lower parts of her body.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe,” she replies coyly, and to tease him further she adds, “I could check if you want?”</p><p> </p><p>“Por favor,” he groans and she slides her hand between her parted thighs.</p><p> </p><p> Saying she is wet would be a severe understatement. She is soaking with pure lust.</p><p> </p><p>She lets out an agonized moan. He understands.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Morticia</em>…,” he cries, his voice so filled with passion that it surprises her that the phone does not catch fire.</p><p> </p><p>“God, I wish I was there with you…I want to touch you…taste you…I want you so much, you have no idea.”</p><p> </p><p>But she does.</p><p> </p><p>Morticia can’t remember if she has ever felt this sexually frustrated before She is not accustomed to pleasuring herself. First, her husband considers her satisfaction to be his duty, and second, her stiletto nails are not ideal for the task to say the least. However, she manages to find a way, careful not to mutilate the delicate parts of her body.</p><p> </p><p>“I want you too,” she whispers. “Your weight on top of me. Your warmth. Crush me. <em>Take me</em>.” She forces the words past her throat, agony and arousal straining her voice.</p><p> </p><p>“More,” Gomez demands, and she goes on fuelling his desire as well as her own.</p><p> </p><p>“I want you inside me.”</p><p> </p><p>He moans in deep frustration.</p><p> </p><p> “There’s no place I’d rather be than inside you right now.”</p><p> </p><p>“You prefer me like this, don’t you?” she asks as she gently caresses herself.</p><p> </p><p>“Like what?”</p><p> </p><p>“Drunk, soaking wet and desperate for your cock.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Morticia almost fears that she has given Gomez a heart attack with her filthy mouth, because it gets deathly quiet on the other end of the line. Yet, she does not feel ashamed. In the sheer desperation of her current state, she fell for the urge to convey her desire in the most vulgar of ways. If that made her sound like a slut, let it be so.</p><p> </p><p>“Tish, you make me speechless,” he finally replies, nothing but pure admiration in his voice. “I love it when you talk like that. I wish you’d get drunk more often.”</p><p> </p><p>“I need to be filled,” she whimpers, writhing as if her body blindly searches for her lover, but to no avail. All she achieves is getting so close to the edge of the narrow chaise lounge that she almost tumbles to the floor. She inches herself back in place just in time to avoid the humiliation.</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve bought you toys.”</p><p> </p><p>“They won’t do”.</p><p> </p><p> She is fully aware that she gives him the answer she knows he wants, and she does so because it is true.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what it feels like when I fuck you” he rasps, and her mind slips into a haze of blissful memories.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Hot against cold. Whips. Drops of wax and sweat trickling down her spine. Screams in the dungeon. Wet lace. Teeth sinking into her neck. Ropes bruising her wrists. Deep kisses. Slick satin on her tongue. A sudden taste of bitterness against her palate. His hands buried in her hair, closing around her throat, pushing her legs apart. The experience of total completion when he sinks into her and she clenches around him. The fullness, the sweetness, the exquisite sensation of iron covered in velvet.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Although a myriad of sensations flashes before Morticia’s inner eye, the actual experience hovers somewhere beyond her grasp, beyond her words. Besides, she can no longer hold back the final wave of pleasure waiting to flood her body.</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Darling, I can’t …I’m going to-</em>” she moans and he encourages her to come for him. She cries his name as her orgasm hits her hot and hard and her soul trashes against the borders of her being, reaching out for his. He groans back at her, mirroring both her pleasure and her pain. </p><p> </p><p>Reality seeps in like blood through a towel as soon as the last contraction ebbs out and her body relaxes. She hears Gomez cursing in Spanish and knows she must let him go back to work.</p><p> </p><p>“Cara”, he says, “ I have a…mess to clean and a meeting in -let me see-exactly five minutes, but I promise I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay?  I love you with all of my heart.”</p><p> </p><p>“I love you too,” Morticia whispers before she closes her eyes and drifts into oblivion.  </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
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